[Poe] traveled by steamer to Baltimore and arrived there on September
twentyninth. Exactly what happened to him in that city cannot now be
ascertained. An election was in progress, and the preponderance of
evidence points to the fact that he began to drink and fell into the hands of
a gang of repeaters who probably gave him drugged liquor and voted him.
On October third he was found by Dr. James E. Snodgrass, an old friend,
in a, horrible condition at a low tavern in Lombard Street. Summoning a
relative of Poe, Dr. Snodgrass had the now unconscious and dying poet
taken in a carriage to the Washington Hospital and put into the care of Dr.
J. J. Moran, the resident physician. Several days of delirium ensued with
only a few intervals of partial consciousness. He called repeatedly for one
"Reynolds," and gave vent to every indication of utter despair. Finally on
Sunday morning, October 7, 1849, "He became quiet and seemed to rest
for a short time. Then, gently, moving his head, he said, 'Lord help my
poor soul.'" As he had lived so he died--in great misery and tragedy.

Poe is buried in the Old Western Burial Ground in Baltimore, Maryland.
Every January 19, Poe's birthday, for more than fifty years a man dressed
in black and fedora has left cognac accompanied by three red roses on Poe's grave.